


Untitled

by GyouNibergue



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Depression, Disturbing Themes, Emotionally Repressed, Heavy Angst, M/M, Pseudo-Incest, Self-cest, Unresolved Sexual Tension, inner monologue, psychological torment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 13:59:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13789197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GyouNibergue/pseuds/GyouNibergue
Summary: Every time I feel that I understandA shadow falls on me, takes it awayEvery time I try to walk awayA shadow falls on me and tells me to stayEvery time I dream you will come homeA shadow falls on me and I wake up aloneEvery time I scream for someone to blameA shadow falls on me and whispers my nameWhen will it end?Gary Numan - A Shadow Falls On Me





	Untitled

**Author's Note:**

> My first try at writing fanfiction. And there's more - this is my first fanfic in english EVER.   
> So be warned. And be gentle. I'm just a miserable shipper driven to drastic measures to get high.   
> My apologies, guys..  
> If you see any mistakes feel free to correct any of them, it would be much appreciated :)

It all started with the dreams.

And then the moment came when dreams no longer differ from reality.

The reality you keep relying upon because you don’t want to know the truth about yourself. 

No one ever does.

The dreams grow inside you, spread the roots so you can never even hope to abandon them. They own you with everything you have or have ever had. They’re a disease.

And when the time comes they’d thrash at you with all force of a long ignored illness, the symptoms are no longer bearable.

Everything you’ve ever known about yourself is suddenly under question, nothing seems certain and your symptoms harshly develop into a full blown paranoia.

The light in your empty room is dim, nothing more than a faint lamp crooked in half on a nightstand, making sure you are truly alone without having to see the pathetic surroundings you live in.

This is another futile attempt at retreating in denial. You know that. What does anything matter if there’s nothing you can do at this stage? You don’t have to sleep to see the dreams like normal people. They are coming for you either way. And just like with any other dream you are never really in control. Sure you can observe yourself from the distance, maybe try causing some rippling on still water which is your subconscious, but nothing really comes out of this.

The silence is deafening and you don’t know if it threatens the last shreds of your mind or protects you, wrapping around you like a suffocating cocoon. 

So you’re waiting. And you’re waiting. And you’re waiting.

His comings and goings have become more erratic of lately, you can feel something bothering him deeply, angers him. ‘Him’. Another lie. Another addiction you can’t live without. Is this even how he looked like in real life? Is he being replaced by some repressed psycho version of him,of you?

This is strange. You know you have the answers and you know the truth, but. Every time staring at that stupid photo of you two together and back at him in that three dimensional unreality ---you can’t tell the difference.  

And it’s either you haven’t yet found the bug in this system or you just got a fucked up memory, tossing around the facts in your head. But the only thing about it you can’t neither change nor accept is this animalistic feeling of being loved and guarded at all times. It feels like loneliness.

Sometimes it verges on freaking the shit out of you and sometimes it rests on your skin like a light feather touch, soothing but persistent, bringing up the itch and making your head spin with dizziness. It’s so much like withdrawal but with someone’s presence in it, dulling the pain but bringing up everything else.

It’s in your bones and you can’t shake it, you can’t shake it. Your mind would not let that happen. 

 

«You’re not getting all softy on me, are you? Watching me going to sleep every night?» – you mumble under your nose and into the darkness.

 

Sometimes he holds you down when pain becomes unbearable and you wriggle on the sheets, spine arching back, his rough hands keeping you in place so you wouldn’t hurt yourself even more. It makes you feel even worse somehow, shackled to the bed like this, your head is splitting in two and nauseous burning crawls it’s way up your chest while your dick twitches convulsively – all your sensors are screaming.

 

_ Please. Please, please, make it stop.     _

 

You can still remember calling out for Angela a few times, your trembling voice echoes faintly in the empty room, feeling small and torn down, almost non-existing.

After these fits everything gets a bit better for awhile, even if you’re more than a little sore.

He is always there when you wake up though – his nonchalant position on a chair beside you makes little to cover up the creasy worry lines on his face. 

You make the show of ignoring him, your red rimmed eyes wandering through him as if he wasn’t there. He is observing your stupidity with affection and maybe a tiny bit of respect, shifting in his chair to pull and stretch the ache in his sore limbs after another sleepless night.

Your gaze lingers on his movements when you think he doesn’t notice, but it always takes you a fracture of second longer to look away when he eventually does, catching you every time.

 

_ You are broken _

 

You hear the voice rasp in the void very much like the one in your dreams.

 

_ You can’t be fixed. _

 

He knows.

You can tell by the way he stares at you as if you were something exceptional to him, too precious to let go. His lightly ironic expression holds something possessive underneath, accentuating it instead of covering it up with sarcastic remarks and easy smiles like it always had been back when you were working at the arcade side by side. You see him looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth looking at before you tear your eyes away.

 

He disappears into nothing as abruptly as he emerges from it. Day. After day. After day. You patch yourself up, picking up odds and ends along the way even long after he’s gone. 

That unnerves you. Makes you doubt if any of this wasn’t real. 

The used piece of gum carelessly stuck under the desk makes you want to throw it across the room – the smell of mint fresh on your fingers.

 

When you stare at the blue-red sneackers tossed under the bed for a while, confused – it’s not even an old pair and God forbid you’d ever wear anything like that - you feel the bile forming in your throat at the realization, clenching and unclenching your teeth just to steady your breathing, the rush of panic washes over you until the waves reducing again, making the ringing in your ears finally stop.

You distinctly smell the sweat of his body on a bathroom towel, wiping your arms and chest, slowly bringing it to your face and brushing off the last drops of water before burying your nose and mouth in it. Standing like this for half an hour ends up either with your hand around your cock, desperately trying to get yourself off just to get rid of the itch that feels like eating you alive or retching up right there on a concrete floor. Sometimes you do both and then collapse on the floor in your own vomit. Depends on a day. 

Sometimes you even make it to the toilet seat --doesn’t leave so much mess in the end. 

 

You make the tea afterwards, hands still trembling slightly. It’s too hot to hold it in one hand, and you use both of them awkwardly cupping it in your palms and sipping slowly, shuddering.

You hate tea.

Most of it not even register by your taste receptors. Just herbs, something spicy, maybe more herbs. You remember how Shayla used to love the camomile. She would drag you to her room sometimes, too lonely to make the excuse and offer you to share some ecstasy together, awkwardly trying to flirt the whole time.

You never really liked the taste, your attention focused on the process of brewing (sometimes complicated and boring, sometimes plain and simple, even fascinating) or rather her soft hands, smiling eyes changing color… 

 

And now you’re hooked to the memory. Another stupid habit you have to let go of.

You thought you deleted Shayla.

You thought you deleted mr. Robot.

His lies, manipulation, his psychotic ideas, his twisted smiles, the pretence, fucked up excuses, over-heated hands, violent urges. 

Everything entwined, you are failing to detach your own thoughts, to make sense of them.

Where does he really end and you begin?

 

_ When will it end? _

 

«You sure you want it to end?»

 

The all too familiar voice echoes within the walls of your fucked up skull, sending shock waves down your spine. Your next breath catches in your throat and you try to take a step back only to stumble over something immediately. Too caught up in all this to pay attention to the mess your room had become.

Mr. Robot.

He shushes you with a smile. This condescending smile he always throws your way as if you were no more than a child. The timbre of his voice low and rumbling, probably intended to soothe and the sound of it is oddly satisfying but not achieving the purpose – something distantly off about it, but you never really get what. 

 

«You should cut yourself some slack once in awhile. You’re overworked». 

 

The sound of his voice grazes on your nerves like a paper cut, dripping honey and barely hidden authority. As it always did. You have no idea how you know that, how you could remember so clearly all nuances of his voice when he was still alive – the exact same volume, going up and down, unstable and wired, maniacal even, the tired sandpaper rasping – or maybe not, not really, more like relentless. Unwavering certainty in every syllable bitten out.

His outstretched hand almost catches you off guard but your defensive reflexes are faster this time, you catch his wrist in a firm grip before he can make another move or say another word. Your body is worn out and your knees are almost ready to give up but you’re not in pain anymore. Not physically at least. 

Your nails are almost digging into the rough fabric of his jacket sleeves, grabbing desperately.

 

«Now what» – he snaps impatiently but doesn’t try to pull away or wrench out his hand from your grasp. If anything he moves even closer, eyeing you questionably, almost daringly, waiting.

 

«I’m not going back» – you grind out through your teeth with difficulty, the anger radiating from you causes him to let out an exasperated sigh. The patience never was one of his best suits.

 

«We have talked about this, kiddo. You can’t leave everything hanging, we have no time for doubt here, and overthinking things isn’t good for you».

 

You hate him. 

Hate him for showing up unexpectedly, taking care of you, getting in the way of overcoming this paralyzing fear that sparkles in cold waves up and down your body, seizing your brain cells. Hate his guts so much your fingers snap into fists while you strain in front of him, barely in control, your voice coated with poison.

 

« _ You are _ not good for me».

 

«As much as I can’t stomach self flattery I’m the one and only thing you can’t afford to lose right now, kid. You’ve suffered enough already. You _depend_ on me. And I care about you, remember? We will go through this together no matter what, I promise you that».

 

He just wouldn’t shut up about it, would he? He’s like a perfectly tuned machine that serves the only purpose.

 

«I’m not going back to the arcade. You can’t make me go back.»

 

The way you say it is violent but he wouldn’t even flinch. He knows you are pleading with him. The low growl erupts from the back of your throat, reverberating through your chest, and you don’t understand why Mr. Robot is so calm. Because why would he, when you’re already balancing on the edge -- all you need is a little push? But he enjoys pushing you almost too much for your comfort, there’s nothing short of twisted admiration glimmering in his eyes, all mischief and daring, the tiny wrinkles pulling in the corners of his eyes. 

 

«You still believe that, don’t you?» 

 

He whispers. Then he looks straight at you, something sly and cocky lurking in his gaze, ever welcoming and persuading, and you do the same thing you always did when he looks at you _that way,_ _this close_ – you lower your eyes not questioning the reasons for doing so (there is quite enough self-reflecting as it is) and he moves even closer to catch your gaze once more, leaning down a bit, crowding into your personal space. _Making you_ notice him, daring you to look at him right this second. Does he know something you don’t? There is always something he keeps away.

The pull of his aftershave mingling with something hard and fresh like the roasted chestnuts and just a light touch of alcohol ghosting over your face make it nearly impossible to move even an inch away. It’s captivating and it makes your head swim. You remember all of him, still, after all those years, your recollections of him are terrifyingly accurate. They are the reason you still can keep it together. You contemplate for a second if his jacket had ever smelled like it.  You don’t remember this combination. 

The mere thought makes your skin crawl. 

 

«Oh boy, It turns out you’re even slower than I thought».

 

You watch him open his mouth, his eyes looking up at you almost reverently. You had never questioned it when you were a child – things had been much more simple, easier to accept. And you wouldn’t have thought someday you’d be confused and uncertain to name what you see when you look in his eyes. So close you can feel his unsteady breaths tickle down your cheek. His eyes seem heavy-lidded that makes you think of intoxication and then you are suddenly aware of the familiar bitterness of alcohol against your tongue. 

You blink twice not quite understanding where did it come from as if to shake this feeling. 

 

«I’m not standing in your way, kiddo. I’m helping you find it. But if you going to fight your way out of the only possible outcome which makes things right for you -- I promise, I can make you do a lot more than just move your ass in the right direction, if that’s what it takes.»

 

You pretend just for a moment everything is on mute and observe the way his lips move, curling in that ever present smirk. Your hand desperately clutches at his wrist trembling but he clearly ignores it. You don’t look away because you know he doesn’t want you to. Even without ability to hear you know exactly what he looks like telling some revolting anecdote and it feels like he is the only one who can deliver the punch line. He’s fucking enjoying that.

 

«I own you, kiddo. Don’t you ever forget that.»

 

His crooked smile breaks into a blinding grin and before you know it you deliver a swift blow to his cheek, the skin on the back of your hand gets a sharp bite from his stubble, you watch his face jerk to the side, the surprised grunt turned to a half-suppressed moan. It betrays some of the pain you caused and that stirs something in you, distinctly familiar. 

 

You don’t want it. 

It doesn’t make any sense beating the shit out of him, you can’t cause mr. Robot any physical pain without hurting yourself, and you’re really tired of being in pain.

 

«It’s gonna hurt in the morning» – you hear him half-gasp, half-laugh, his smiling face makes you choke on helpless rage. 

He breaks off from your grasp too easily and almost moves aside before your fist connects with his smug face with a full blown force. It’s brutal this time -- not a sideway slap thrown to humiliate -- and you are mesmerized by the action. You’re too busy staring at his red-tinted skin and his split lip, when mr. Robot suddenly grabs your hand and swings you around, his both hands pulling you towards him harshly by the back of the neck, thumbs pressing suggestively at the windpipe, grounding you down, anchoring you -- gesture almost caressing. His eyes are blazing, dangerously narrowed, mouth hung open taking fast shallow breaths and you are mirroring him, taking a deep breath as well, feeling the pressure on your throat increase.

 

He is annoyed with you, you can tell.

 

«Alright, fine -- you know what, -- I’m so sick and tired of your whining! I’d been practically driving my ass off for the past few weeks to help you come back to normal, - a pretty much tedious task which most people would’ve called very fucking disturbing if you ask me. I mean, do you even recall half of the words you said to me last night?»

 

He sounds pissed off and breathless. He laughs in your face almost in disbelief, his hands never leave your throat, pressing down just to accentuate his biting words, your breathing gets shallower with each passing second as you struggle to breathe against a vice grip squeezing the consciousness out of you.

 

«And it’s hardly buying us any time, is it? 

 

So tell me, what I get for all the bother, huh? Not even a ‘Thank you, I know you tried as hard as you can’?»

 

You’re almost scared out of your mind by the way his hard stare drops from your eyes to your lips and shifts back up again, -- there’s no warning for this, there couldn’t have possibly be one -- the naked need in your eyes probably makes his grip even more vicious, your eyes rolling back, making you suck in a breath, starting to choke, opening your mouth uselessly. 

 

«You need to get it out of your system, right, little one? – all the suppression, all that rage of not being in control? If that is the case I suggest you do just that and make it worth all months of bullshit you forced us through, you hopeless miserable piece of shit!».

 

You start losing your focus, his face is a blur. But despite that you see everything perfectly. You’re managing this. That doesn’t mean it’s real but you’re not yet ready to accept there is a possibility, the meaning for all of this. But you want him to stop, you want him to stop cause it hurts, it fucking drives you mad with pain. And that doesn’t mean you trying to get away –  j n the opposite. You’re leaning into the grip.

He is a part of you – that means you can control him. You feel that sense of  _ Control _ strangling you right now for a reason. You feel that same rage and helplessness you want to squeeze out of your body like the remnants of old toothpaste. Out. Out.

And then you are about to do something you know you might regret, something you swore to yourself you’d never yield to, no matter how powerful the urge can be.

 

You see the same whirl of emotions in his eyes, the ones you can’t and wouldn’t express and you wonder for a moment if he could take that responsibility away from you like he used to when you were a child. 

 

«C’mon, kiddo, you don’t want me gone right now, you just don’t»

 

He almost pleads with you managing to sound just as arrogant but also quite desperate. 

You never have heard him sound quite like that before. Mr. Robot is never desperate. 

You are. 

 

Quilt. Betrayal. Rejection. Silence. 

Those are four words to surge forward and make another mistake. 

Mr. Robot tastes like anxiety. The undertones of dust and cheap liquor go straight to your head and your world shifts. 

 

Overwhelming.

Silence. 

 

Long trips in a car. The promise not to tell.

His fights with your mother. The door is ajar but you’re always lucky to stay in the dark. 

Twisted gentleness afterwards.

 

The encompassing longing.

 

His hands -- lying on the wheel and gripping it nervously, trying to buy some more time before he finally gets you both home. 

Fights again -- but now you’re on the receiving end of it.

The promise to keep silent. 

 

You don’t know how, but you’re breathing again, your lungs are on fire and your lips feel bruised and swollen. 

 

Stop. What the hell just happened?

 

His expression visibly shaken and as soon as you’re able to breathe you push him back, panicked, with all the force you could master. 

 

«M’sorry» he slurs, all traces of mocking confidence suddenly gone. He sounds very drunk, when he backs off, swaying, eyes training on the floor. And then it dawns at you – He’s ashamed.

 

«You scared me shitless, Elliot. I thought I was going to lose you this time. I don’t want.. I  _ can’t _ , Elliot, we can’t lose you,  _ I _ can’t lose you » - he covers his mouth with his hand, reaches up to trace the lines on his forehead while you stand two steps away from him gaping, breathing through the burning in your lungs.

You stand like this for a while sharing confusing silence, painfully aware of each other.

 

«Are you done taking care of me now?» you rasp tonelessly, taunting, waiting for him – his eyes glued to his feet – to look up. And when he does, you still feel the pressure on your neck, your skin tingling, the bruise is likely going to be evident the next time you’d be brave enough to look in the mirror. 

 

«You know that’s never going to happen, right?. I can’t just leave you on your own, kid, not anymore. I mean, even if I wanted to – and I don’t – I couldn’t possibly disintegrate, you’re mind is just not wired that way» - he laughs neuroticly, looking up at you in fascination.

«I feel alive when I’m around» - he grinds out as an afterthought, his voice as raw as the sweet-burning feeling on the skin of your throat. 

You swallow, holding his unblinking gaze.

So this is it then. The bug. The new information. You had to have known a long time ago. 

You’re not completely spent yet, you still have some pent-up energy ready to burst free, some will to live.

You make him alive.

Is that a purpose?

Or do you use him exactly how he uses you?

You are new to this really. You don’t know how to show affection or love by that matter. But you’re trying. At least he understands this better than anyone.

 

«Look, I’m being honest with you. It doesn’t mean I don’t care. Please, just…»

 

He makes a sudden move towards you but you flinch back. He goes still, his jaw working, expression unreadable, just light flickers back and forth in his spectacles.

 

«Get better.»

 

You want to make him stay despite wishing he’d be out of your life for good. 

But he leaves and you wait until you’re numb again.


End file.
